Rob Schackne #942 - "Stretched out"

                      (i.m. Les Murray)

Stretched out
reclining in a chair
pensive poet, vale
yes, might as well
make what you will
a cup of coffee
a book of poems
the struck hand
relaxed in trance
the hat's outside
the search terms
the available grants
pull the other one
please, gentle winds
grace and presence
now translated
a bit of forever
into other tongues

Kit Kelen #1217 - I keep a door in my woods

1217

I keep a door in my woods

is there some smaller than to be here hum?

beautiful biscuit into paint

over a stile it is a tree

was planed once, morticed

a rusting timber

leaves have stained

a world is passing either side

how many have come through?

out of this press, words otherwise

ancestors are

might lie in wait, climb stairs to it

and fallen just so far

a courtesy to knock

wait for the visit – my cure

the paddock between doors

the woods in the way

I hear frogs through there

cicadas of a summer long since

once I was lost for the word

keep them in the passage now

long grass waving unseen with the wind

still broad daylight in there

where a mansion could have stood

feet in the river

hung on a peg

only a nail

in my mother's long coat

the wrong key

nothing to lock up now

Tug Dumbly - Les Murray Through a Glass Bottom

Les Murray Through a Glass Bottom

Les looks down

through a glass-bottom

at the fishes and the weed,

at the reef that knifed the Sirius.

A big man in a tiny boat.

Only about six of us.

This much I remember, though

most of the time I was gilled

on duty-free gin.

I barely recall my readings

on Norfolk Island.

That’s another poetry festival

not to have me back again.

I get a flash of me and Gini

running into Les and his wife

outside a convict ruin on the green,

of Valerie being lovely

and Les expanding free

on the place’s history.

We find Dorothy Porter,

alone and under the pines,

high above Anson Bay.

It’s evening, and she so small,

dark eyed and self-contained,

far from anyone and anywhere.

She smiles. She gone too.

But what sticks most is Les,

too big in that boat too small,

peering down through the glass

into a clear green fathom,

and me thinking Prospero, 

what’s he seeing down there? 

No, what’s he really seeing?

Stuart Rawlinson #100 - One hundred

I know what you’re thinking

two plus years 

for a ton of slim words

older than my son

but shorter than each season

since then the man maths

has been painfully 

reformulated

an unequal equation that 

won’t solve itself

lacuna. Space in the loft

unfit to end

a paragraph in another place

missing suffixes 

mean paper in the bin
it’s a stretch, I know
but another sentence
should just about fit

Rob Schackne #941 - "There is the shopping"

There is the shopping
and the dinner, we
sit down in candlelight
the pleasantries
my body has traveled
well I listened
I am so weary
to be excused
what sort of mask
painting my portrait
by brushstroke
my face in the dark

Tug Dumbly - Woodwork

Woodwork

Your end came smooth  

as a shaving planed

in a tressing arc.

Only later did you rattle the latch

to coat-hanger

a question mark:

splayed and deep

as cold crow’s feet

run the tapering lines
of our own resolve

the haywire spires

of heathen hopes dashed

weave the wind  

like drunken ghosts,

or quietly folded

and put away

still tug at the sheets

to lie with their hosts. 

Frailed intention knocks,  

papery knuckles

at a lacquered box.

Hands that loved Cedar

to varnished beauty

now gnarled to the bed

in a nursing home.

Between metal rails,

tilted and frail,

did you know this

to be the finishing room?

The nurse’s clinical

click-clack spoke plain:

there’s no pretending.

you and I both know

this is the ending.

But you must have sized 

the rough outline,

if not crafted the thing exact.

You smiled, though couldn’t speak -

the stroke had seen to that.

Yet stroked the dogs

my mother took to visit,

dumb animals

you once fed scraps.

Kit Kelen #1216 - trail following

1216

trail following

I am following your trail

they are several

the way a word is more than one

how hearts beat for the idea

so many houses among are the same

where the birds begin

I am gone

they will come

and time refer to itself

time will, you'll see

here I am

this is the other side of the page

there are plenty of us here

follow the rules of the grammar to be

I am gone and how about you?

you never know which door, which room

it may simply be an idea

hearts hung

for how many worlds are there?

here we are for one

they are several

I am following your trail

I am gone

Stuart Rawlinson #99 - When faced with the morning

when faced with the morning

and it’s amber light

water droplets hang invisible 

in the air, the clouds’ 

last retreat: a vestige of warmth from a night 

cancelled and overwritten

words get caught; thoughts viscous, half-numb

the train will come soon

automatic doors swoosh-ready and right

the reverse flight

divert all calls, cancel my appointments

hasten the night

JC Inman #6 An 18th

for Jamae

Forget the lessons its time to learn

Blow out the candles, start to burn

Shed the husk to show the fruit

That ripened to fall and take root

                                         or rot

But no pressure -

The caterpillar leaves the cocoon it made

To find pleasure

And teach us how soon it fades

Kit Kelen #1215 - bury me too

1215

bury me too

for ‘come to my funeral’

I want to be lost in the land

have a forest grow

wherever I fell

wherever’s convenient in fact

and that should be more world than now

where these words were lost

then I’ll be gone

so creature will ever know

I want to be lost in a forest – forgotten

please do not mark the place

have all  of this our world a garden

grieve as we go

will you, with me?

I want to be lost in the forest

that hadn’t been there

before I was buried –

a forest of now, not long ago

when I’m nothing

won’t wish to be found

must do the wishing now

after a while

there’ll be no one to guess

who was it took up so much space

for whom so many died

who cycled the air and the water

deep dreams

I want to be lost in the forest to come

this is my last will  

where I want to go

Tug Dumbly - Two Girls Play Boko Haram

Two Girls Play Boko Haram

The fault may be mine,

my lack of imagination the hate crime

against a word I can see

only as a crime scene,

a cinema of blood.

But I flinch at that word,

like an oyster under lemon.

It sounds like a slow gas hiss

of dead breath.

It has become an ugly word,    

a dirty word, brutal and blunt,

cruelly curled around the world   

like a bitter peel   

on its spiralling hunt.

Yes you have done your job well

you keepers of the Word,

you have converted me

to an enlightened state

of disgust.

I have come to believe

as believe you must

that your god delights

in watching his prey

lopped with machetes

then posted like pop clips

on the Youtube butchery.

It’s just a word

that Word you enact.

But words come with baggage

strapped to them  

like bombs in fact.

She tried to dash across the road

but she also exploded

the trader said.

Stuff sticks to words,

like spattered flesh

to a market wall.

Unjust to tar all

with this hate crime.

But those pieces of girl

won’t be scraped from my mind

and blinkered though my view

of that Word may be

I fear this is all it wants me to see –

Its colour is black, its number none,

Sliced to ice its limbs are numb,

Ladling waste and lamentation,

A sound of wind hissing through a

Mindscape of pockmarked desolation

a relentless, ululating grief

sirening nothing
but what it seeks to extinguish

as with clockwork heart

of scriptural beat

its inmates from asylums

nightly creep, encrypted to kill

their keeper’s meat.

I saw their dead bodies.

Two girls about 10 years of age …

you only see the plaited hair

and part of the upper torso

the trader said.

You may see more beauty in the Word,

the praying spine of civilization

graceful and curvaceous

as a bejewelled scimitar.

If so, how lucky you are.

But I see cleavers and butchers’ blocks,

a raised proscriptive finger,

in the other hand a Kalashnikov.

I see two little girls, dressed

as bomb dolls, as they go off.

Enjoy Martyrs’ Paradise, thugs,

that rich reward for strapping

your convictions to the chests of children.

Did you say it was a game?

Did they volunteer to play?

Well then, that’s okay.

It’s for them we must give thanks

and pray, as they play,

laughing at the feet of the prophet,  

squealing with glee

as they kick about an infidel’s head

like a soccer ball.

Don’t worry, if one should fall

through a cloud, god’s got a

cupboard of heads.

Who knows, Mr Boko Haram,

maybe you’ll get a postcard of thanks

from those two girls

for sending them, express post, to Paradise.

Wishing you were there.  

 

 

Jeffree Michael #71 New heart

This old heart 

will it last

insecure 

distance

barely rhymes 

because of these times

the calls and listings 

a like-like here a few rights there

some a sign you're listening

no amount of extra memory 

is enough for what it takes

the here and now

to know somehow

feet below

do the shuffling

all souls
everywhere beyond 

mindless mindfulness wrestling 

is so yesterday

darling

to the fore we go

on and on 

rented-a-tent

look ahead 

but not too far

how many horizons

does one need 

to comprehend

the earth
so round

we 

the travelers

image jms charcoal pastel pencil conte drawing + software

ha - arp #-1

All the days fall into one 

Rob Schackne #940 - The First Chapter

The first chapter
How To Wash An Owl
my last year as a fairy tale

(an age-old orbit
the film is in the can
what do you cancel)

more wing than you think
flying in the kitchen
the dream of wild eyes

it was a surgeon
that lost its children
now hungry for fingers

how did I forget
what it takes to play
sometimes to walk out

Kit Kelen #1214 - for the love of all seasons

1214

for the love of all seasons

a prayer against religion

clear the sky

stare out

what God does and we –

who can tell us from the truth?

and under whose trees?

in whose shade now?

how ignorant

these priests of light

so in the open arms

of Spring

come shoots

come buds

come flowers

guessing ever to be home

the animals named after

let eyes clear

rest you

at a Summer swim

and bent in old salute

burnt, tired with the day goes on

and days

till fade

the Sun

sick of itself

giving out in Autumn

sly, and down by leaf

damp, trod

till first of frost

then Wintering

in hive hum

cave the dark of it

roll dreams around

wrap close

homely here

and through the drowse

an ear out

reached

in mind’s eye

as with hands to hold

this touch

and here release

the little bird’s

yet to speak

Rob Schackne #939 - "I was convinced"

I was convinced
I was watching
a bee die
on the table
in front of me
waving one last time
circling its parts
which looked 

like tasting itself
the sun was shining
and the wind was down
and it shuddered
(the morning was autumn)
its last mortal act
was suddenly to fly off

JC Inman #5 The Office and The Will

The Office And The Will

One waits patiently for love

Knuckles white grip obligation

Dormant womb persistent welcome

Hometown Argos, I turn my head from you in the street,
your envelopes unopened emails unread, knocks unanswered.

Distraction is binge sess, comfortable blanket,
A profane bottle,a rightward swipe, my own hand.

I call the sullen one.

It's cur-kicked circumspect; this devil's price is higher again,

The ritual requires more blood - the leeches are full and I have faded frail.

This is my one task, by love and by law

My liver must regrow, my stone roll back.

This morning the eyes of vice are drawn to Africa

Atop weary stairs the temple sits, lightning in its veins,

the keys of heaven spread lovingly, invitingly, qwertily.

Do I sip the sacred cup or sacrifice myself again on the altar of Alt F4?

Kit Kelen #1213 - spin

1213

spin

stand up dizzy

take a seat

here’s everything that saves my life

go with it

make my way

through mist of day

time settles

sweep it off

so soon I will be gone

and you

I take my cue

and at the balls

I pocket a canon, two

read the lesson

words run altogether

truth is always telling

that I must ask a question

guess

I’m in the book

in eyes up too

and I’m afoot with purpose, task

inform my

next of spin

and steady on

that ringing

you might call it

both of my ears burn

to hear the music of this sphere

to feel this old world turn

Rob Schackne #938 - Senryu (37)

Not like this morning
the meteor shower tonight
still no rain in sight

Kit Kelen #1212 - a bugle call to memory

1212

a bugle

(call to memory)

When he came back, my father would never march. He said ‘they don’t mean to,

but they glorify war. They drink and that way they make it all glorious’.

a bugle

for the lost of all nations

and for those of none

bewildered, ask

where is this hate for us from

war came to where?

from what?

we were fooled to it

it wasn’t here

but when the blacks went down

with rifle

poison

best with lies

o brave

how sacred is your gun?

(mustn’t call that war)

again and again

we were fooled to it

real white men

when order was divine

they served, the blacks

returned to mission

and was the British Empire better?

poor little Belgium – how’s your Congo?

there was only one war worthy of us

and now we make great friends

the rest were greed and pride and oil

and arrogance and fear

and on

and to this day

bewildered, we ask

where is this hate for us from

hate’s not at the base of every war

but it’s there when war comes on

there is the arrogance of right

in smug reflection

so the winners

decorate our scars

then where’s the glory?

where’s the shame?

do you blame the dead?

should we blame the unborn?

in numbers the safety

of God on our side

that’s how nations are

and lift our voiced just to be

better than the rest

scrum, tackle, whip the nag

remember why they fought

remember what they saved

if someone stood to ask a question

then lay weapons down

should we test the weapons

on their makers

on those who sell them on?

if we could shake hands for Christmas

there’s nothing we can’t talk about

when hearts are full to choking

thanks those who are nothing

for all that we have

for everything we’re not

what’s opposite democracy?

obedience, I think

war?   what is it good for?

hear the drums

again again

and feel the sanctity growing

with the sanctimonious

up on their stumps

see how they stiffen a lip

so thinking won’t get in the way

kill or be killed –

it’s ancient I-won’t-call-it-law

but no one remembers the names of the gods

they fucked for virginity – that’s how we’re here

such flesh was in our saints!

and so

a bugle for the best now gone

and long since

laid never to rest

because there’s none

for the lost

points to the biggest lie of the lot

age does not weary memory

these dead are soil long since, that’s all

it was the tyranny of orders

always from on high

is it duty calls?

will you give us a thought?

can you count oil and cash and tell me

who was it coloured the map?

lest we forget where we are

and how and why

stick these notions in young heads

and have them all adore, adhere

here’s the boy on the floor of the trench

in his blood –

he was shot for fear 

Rob Schackne #937 - (Untitled)

My boy killed
in the bombing
my husband too
my sister last year 

from the cancer
my aunt
both parents
murdered
in the civil war
now feeling
outside myself
the bees
took my tears
how empty
my life
just started

Kerri Shying R - # 620 - sydney

sydney

overflown
your ovals
arrayed like moons
in misty night

owl-eyed     peep
back up at the plane

everything is nothing
much     but humdrum
passage      this team
to the next

and all the lights
this tuesday night
are on    for frosty knees
in training     up

going somewhere
gone

Kit Kelen #1211 - time of my life

1211

time of my life

in among the everywhere wonders

where I have held my days          

                                  and do

so I come to you

in your own colours

                       try to see

                    it’s why we live and breathe

and flimsily the fabric

    all apart in hands

everything built

is only a moment

it takes roses

to smell time

I always travelled

by means of a question

meant

to have an open heart

learning the world

was my work

shall we say

was all my work

and given

it’s hieroglyphic with adventures

of course I am lost in the story

and there’s this blank page we’re at now

it’s where we always start

Tug Dumbly - Corellas

Corellas

Mad flyers.

Drip like snot from wires.

Strip Plane trees

like a cheap strip tease.

Voices like woodchippers.  

Waddle like old washerwomen.

Eyes purple pouched

like drunk uncles – drunkles.

Corellas. Love em.  

Tug Dumbly - Cemetery Solutions

Cemetery Solutions

Nest corpses on traffic lights,  

gaffer them to power poles.

Put bodies by bins,  

pin them by swings in

playgrounds and parks.

Prop them, like buskers,

to the wall outside Coles.  

Use them as archery targets,

let them decay, in an artisan way,

at farmer’s markets. 

They can feed Ibises in public places

and we’ll be Parsee passers by,

Zoroastrian pedestrians,

seeing where the tom tom takes us.

Jeffree Michael #70 In

Time

this time will be seen
isolated celebrated
cut away from the rest
poised
to form futures

whatever

before
events reasons
consequences
rally another moment
one to the next

what ever

Rob Schackne #936 - The Private Equity

The Private Equity

Ignore the signs 

or deface them
getting closer
almost out there
post-gravity
no need to queue
to show commitment
mustached giaconda
politicians with horns
oh yes there it is
oh yes there is
a wrong way of anger
but no theory
(I don't think)
beyond fairness
(weigh me right)
occasions of grace
& its opposite practice

Kit Kelen #1210 - after the blast

1210

after the blast

no one has claimed

the faith goes on

you won’t kill a thing like that

ages of terror

are all after the event

grip of, gone down

the diagram exploded

the gone are thought so sent

into the church

the mosque

the temple

in the market

bad luck struck

no one remembers what those deaths were for

no one has claimed

someone in a suit and tie

sold them the toys to play

throw bombs

spray bullets

poison water

the king is any head of them

draw, quarter, boil a king

here’s everyone aghast in grief

what good will it do?

in another generation altogether

there’s only to remember the gone

soldier trained to give his life

her life

give blood

outside the ruin

and from a makeshift stage undaunted

the gone are thought so sent

but they are, there is

nowhere now

only thoughts with them

what if excess of love?

there must be some kind of tune to the calling

the map grew stiff with planning it

my country is a corpse

to mesmerize the heart

dead tend to the dead

hell is here with us

so heaven’s full today

the hatred of strangers is always easy

easy to anger the wronged

no one remembers what those deaths were for

no one has claimed

they went to the fire

they went under

take the body of words

of wishes

this we  

be dust and smile

take the body apart

can you imagine

that anger

that hate

?

that there was no other way

Tug Dumbly - Arvening

Arvening 

A boy enters quiet, and there’s the tiny shock

to catch a dropped face, faintly sainted

and suffused in suffering she stands

at the suffering sink, counter sunk

in unmoored light. His Mother no more

but a beast unawares, pastured in night,

asleep on its feet to an elsewhere tethered life.

Tear trek dried through floured cheek,

onion hands to apron thighs, she lost

and profound in the arvening glow

of orange-pink haloing a yard overgrown,

this light brimming eye and spilling lip

of a kitchen window, bathing a face sagged

to its natural resting place, that unmade face

they most met in long ago, ripened to windfall,

to the goodness and sadness of a patient mango.